


Skin Deep

by Sunjinjo



Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blindness, Crowley's Tattoo (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Demon Physiology, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Occult equivalent of a bad sunburn, Post-Canon, Shapeshifting, Sickfic, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Two halves of a whole idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 19:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21463405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunjinjo/pseuds/Sunjinjo
Summary: After getting himself exposed to an unintentional overdose of divinity, Crowley starts presenting with some weird symptoms.Don’t mind me, just a snake keeper finally writing about one, and a very dear snake it is indeed. :D Can be read as a standalone work!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wings, Scales, Nightingales [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406188
Comments: 103
Kudos: 368





	1. Light

**Author's Note:**

> After all the wing talk in Honey, Spread Your Wings, I wanted to do something with scales as well to balance it out, so here we go. After this I'll be back on the main, 'nightingale' storyline to this series :P They're still engaged, after all...

There was a light flickering on and off on Old Compton Street, a rather interesting avenue even in already colourful Soho. It was obscured by drawn blinds, and by all rights it shouldn’t be on at all, as the bookshop it illuminated was quite definitely closed – yet there it was, strobing into the noisy London night.

It shone from every window, and any onlooker giving it any thought would think of a localized power failure. They’d be wrong, of course. Reality often took quite some gleeful pride in being stranger than fiction. A power failure would also fail to explain every houseplant on the block spontaneously bursting into bloom, rhinestone jewelry suddenly turning precious, or the mild blood rain on Greek Street.

Inside the shop with the flickering light, beyond the windows and the blinds, beyond a clutter of paraphernalia collected over an inordinately long lifespan and an even more inordinate amount of antique books, sat a well-worn couch and two entangled bodies. The bodies were no longer on the couch. They’d fallen off at some point, and clearly didn’t have any attention or care to spare for this fact. The carpet was a perfectly fine substitute for what they were doing, anyway.

If the hypothetical onlooker would’ve found their way into the shop somehow[1], waded through the strange miasma of supernatural euphoria in the air with all their faculties intact, and managed to glimpse the duo in the back room, they might be forgiven for thinking the two of them were up to some dancing of the good old horizontal tango, but they’d be wrong again – although not very far off.

_The intercourse of angels is a conflagration of the whole being._ Swedenborg had been on the money when his trances and dabbles in the occult led him to that conclusion – then again, the one who’d inspired his curiosity in the first place had been in a position of knowledge, after all.

It was a perfect, burning merge of celestial energies, just the right side of exquisite agony, sending limbs and wings into a shudder and faces into expressions of exalted rapture. The flickering light didn’t bother either of the parties involved; their eyes were not only closed, their _real_ eyes had departed this plane of existence altogether, turning their Sight sideways through reality just so, into an ultimate kind of privacy where no human perception could ever follow.

Crowley and Aziraphale had worked eachother up into a sphere of whirling, conjoined energy, black and white and gold and fire all in one. Feathers and spinning halos escaped it and merged back into it easier than air with air. Light enveloped and caressed flame, jets of it eagerly licking back – and then, with a pang of energy and something that wasn’t _quite_ a note of celestial harmony, all difference between them evaporated and they were forged together in a glow like silver starlight. Four shining wings flung themselves open and stayed that way, trembling in ecstacy. In the alley behind the shop, a sick and aged stray terrier suddenly found itself both perfectly healthy and menaced by three sleek black cats with flashing eyes.

Aziraphale’s physical form threw back its head. Crowley immediately followed, arching into the embrace, pressing their bodies even closer together as impossible pleasure surged through them like a river bursting its banks. _Oh darling, oh love,_ oh –

_Closer – closer, further, more, hold this –_

This was everything, this thing they were together, hedonism and hunger all entangled and set alight by a love of six thousand years. Radiant and trembling and ineffable, this was _everything._ Angel and demon as one as no others had ever been before, none of the others Up or Down would ever even dream of this, but they didn’t have a _clue_ what they were missing – nothing in the world could possibly match this –

_Angel –_

– but inevitably, perfection could not last. Two of the alley cats yowled in confusion, turning back to mottled ginger and fat tabby. The terrier kept running, not looking back.

_Oh, angel –_

Silver tipped over into white and gold with a soundless cry, crashing over dark fire as Aziraphale’s back arched, his halo sizzling and sparking like orb lightning in the shop. Crowley clung to him, wings folded straight back as though he was caught in a whirlwind, or falling, and eagerly letting it happen. His occult self let itself be buffeted by the frenzied light, like a moth embracing the flame.

_Further –_

A few rhinestones across the street turned to diamond, shining bits of eternity.

_…O-ohhh…_

_Stars, angel, you’re glorious like this –_

Aziraphale, his physical and ethereal self aflame with holy light, regained a modicum of his senses and immediately tensed up. _Crowley, I’m – ah – I’m hurting you! _

_You’re not – you never could –_

_This is – oh, this is too much –_

_I can take it –_

Disagreement is the death of mental unity. In an instant, light and darkness whirled away from eachother, even though Crowley clung on for a moment longer and Aziraphale couldn’t prevent himself leaving a lingering, white-hot touch on the demon’s true self, tendrils of white fire tangling around him in a searing goodbye. The last black cat tripped over its own feet, hissed at nothing, and bolted. In the bookshop, the angel’s halo fully enveloped both himself and Crowley before finally guttering out.

The light near the entrance flickered its last and shattered. At the same time, an angel and demon returned to their physical forms and immediately collapsed onto one another, aftershocks of golden light and black scales shivering across their bodies.

Aziraphale fought through profound satisfaction and the endorphic smile making its way onto his face, propping himself up. “Goodness, Crowley, are you alright?”

“_Mmm._” The demon clearly did not have such reservations about his expression. He cracked open hazy golden eyes and instantly melted the angel with a look of pure adoration. “Never better. That was… _whoo-eee…_”

“You can’t just. Good Lord.” Aziraphale cupped his face, and couldn’t help allowing that traitorous smile to take hold as Crowley leaned into his touch. “You cannot let me go that far.”

“You can’t fault me for always wanting more. I can’t get enough of you, angel.” Crowley briefly leant back, a spark of worry lighting up his eyes. “Not good?”

The angel kissed him, hands trailing down his lean body. “Breathtaking. Rapturous. _Delectable…_”

Crowley closed his eyes, smile slipping into a grin. “Ssstop it –”

“…but also practically a smiting, dearest. I nearly forgot myself in all that holiness.”

“You can smite me –” The demon yawned, baring snake fangs – “any day of the week, angel. Would be glad to, if that’s what it feels like.” He snuggled into the angel’s side. “When you do it, I mean.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You’ve been smitten before?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Crowley smirked. “I suppose I’ve only been smitten for six thousand years.”

“Don’t give me that, you know what I mean.”

“Not by angels, just enthusiastic humans,” the demon conceded. “I guess they’d be exorcisms? Oh, don’t look at me like that, I don’t tell you everything. It’s rather fun, really. Like discorporation, but you can linger in spirit and mess with the humans after. Once I even slipped back into my body in time, that _really_ put them on edge the next day[2].” Crowley shimmied up for a gentle kiss, smiling into it. “Stop worrying, angel. You didn’t hurt me.”

“Hmm. If you say so, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1We did say hypothetical.[return to text]
> 
> 2Crowley might or might not have been responsible for a whole new slew of vampire myths, causing a frenzy of grave digging and staking of corpses. And all that because he’d forgotten to put his fangs away upon reawakening. Really, it was the smallest things in those bad old Dark Ages.[return to text]


	2. Burned

The next day, Crowley was singing a different song.

He awoke on the couch, buried under in an avalanche of soft blankets and entangled with an even softer, still very naked angel, so he really shouldn’t have any reason to complain, and yet –

It hurt. _Manchester,_ it hurt.

He sucked in a sharp, hissing breath as the stinging pain washed over him, his entire skin burning as though chafed raw. He looked down at himself and was surprised at the lack of redness, welts or other physical marks. He hissed again, wincing as the pain intensified. “What the –”

“Mm.” Aziraphale sleepily stirred against his chest, leading him to grit his teeth. “Good morning, love.” He slowly opened his eyes, smiling softly, but then widened them in concern as he saw Crowley’s drawn face. “What’s wrong?” He lightly stroked the demon’s cheek as though handling something fragile – but even this gentle touch drew a loud hiss from Crowley, and the demon reflexively drew back, swift as a coiling serpent. (In the neighbouring hat shop, a strip of wallpaper peeled off.) He gingerly touched his own face, eyes wide and yellow. “What the _Hell…_”

Aziraphale backed away as well. “Dear Lord. I _did_ hurt you.”

“No. Nonsense. Touch me again.”

Aziraphale did. Crowley immediately regretted it. The strip of wallpaper caught fire.

The angel’s hands hovered over the gasping, shaking demon uncertainly, torn between wanting to comfort and the knowledge it was now apparently a bad idea to do so physically. He moved to leave the couch and give Crowley some space, but the demon wordlessly reached out to him. Aziraphale drew a deep breath, trying to force himself to calm down. “I’m going to try a healing miracle. Yes?”

“Let’s.”

The angel cautiously glided a hand down Crowley’s arm a hair’s width from his skin, aiming to soothe whatever was ailing him as he might when healing an unfortunate human. But instead of relaxing, the demon tensed up even further, screwing up his face and mouthing several voiceless profanities as the neighbouring wall promptly turned black and cracked as ancient basalt. The demon let out a bone-deep groan as he resurfaced. “Nnnope. Not a good idea. _Satan,_ that ssmarts…”

It wasn’t often Crowley invoked the Guy Downstairs. Aziraphale knew enough, and removed himself from the demon’s side, getting dressed and getting a good session of worried pacing going while Crowley curled into a shivery ball. Both ignored the sudden, muffled sounds of shock, surprise and the smoke alarm next door. 

“We can fix this,” the angel said, eyes wide and anxious as he moved back and forth through the small back room. “I just. We just went overboard last night. You need time to recover from that.” He gestured frantically, hands tangling in his own hair every few beats. “I’m ever so sorry, dear, I really shouldn’t have –”

“Wasn’t you,” Crowley groaned into his blanket cocoon. “My fault. Got greedy. Flew a little too close to the sun.” He was still shivering; the pain had subsided a little now Aziraphale had distanced himself, but his entire body still stung with a hot ache, signaling some deep damage and warning him to not repeat whatever had caused it. He let out a quiet hiss; he had his own, very pointed thoughts on that. 

“We’re still an angel and demon, dear,” Aziraphale said sadly, giving a voice to it and making something decidedly hellish flare in Crowley’s stomach. “There are limits to how long we can stay that close, it seems.”

“I’ll be fine, don’t ruffle your feathers over it.”

Crowley wasn’t fine that evening, or the evening after.

The scorching pain had subsided, but only to make room for a highly annoying prickling sensation at the merest touch, as well as a generalized malaise to go with it. Crowley was reduced to curling up into himself and firmly grasping onto any source of distraction he could get.

Aziraphale didn’t leave his side, constantly fussing and refusing to leave the shop, even forgoing an afternoon meeting with a fellow book dealer that could’ve landed him a few unique manuscripts. He attempted to get some work done sorting through a previous shipment, but kept drifting back to where the demon lay couchridden. Crowley had given up trying to go outside; he’d escaped his angel’s watchful eye at one point, slipping into the alley behind the shop, but had soon found his legs turning to jelly beneath him. He’d collapsed into a boneless heap and had been forced to accept Aziraphale’s very distressed support in getting back inside. Once there, he’d regretted putting on clothes about as much as having brought the angel’s searing touch upon himself again, swiftly ridding his sensitive skin of both and morosely crawling back under the blankets.

The demon had even less of an appetite than usual, so food was no comfort, and although Crowley had attempted to drink away his troubles this wasn’t very effective either. Aziraphale had brough up seeking out the care of human doctors, but Crowley had only chuckled at this. “If an angelic miracle is no help, I don’t think worldly medicine will be, either,” he’d remarked. He’d glanced at his Château Pontet Canet. “Including this, but at least it tastes good.”

“But they’re so clever, you’d think maybe they’d know…”

“We’re not going to a hospital, angel. You’d just wear yourself out again at the intensive care wards, and then neither of us will be worth anything.”

And so all Aziraphale could really offer was time spent together; talking and having a few laughs through the discomfort, playing cards and chess and letting the demon cheat his little heart out, and reading to him – although Aziraphale kept losing track of the words. The angel had always been terrible at hiding his concerns.

“This is exactly what we were afraid of,” he fretted late that second night, as Crowley wiled away time playing Candy Crush on his phone. “My touch burning you. Your touch corrupting me somehow.”

“Bollocks,” Crowley succinctly replied. “The only reason we never really touched was ‘cause Head Office might be watching. Or maybe we were afraid we wouldn’t be able to stop, eh?”

“A bit of both, perhaps,” Aziraphale smiled quietly to himself. “But you have to concede, it’s quite the leap to go from barely touching at all to… well. Mingling essences on the regular.”

Crowley rolled over, propping himself up and following the pacing angel with his eyes. “Why are we talking about this? Now I want to touch you.” More than he’d already been distracting himself from, that was.

Aziraphale stilled, turning. There was a regretful yearning in his eyes that only intensified the prickling under Crowley’s skin. This wasn’t fair. They’d spent long enough like this, the mere air between them as effective a barrier as any wall around paradise. The angel clearly felt the same way. 

“We don’t know if this will pass,” he fretted. “How long it’s going to take. What if this is…” His eyes flicked up, a reflexive gesture he’d been slowly unlearning, and Crowley minutely gritted his teeth seeing it again. “Bit late for it, don’t you think?”

“None of them were ever really ‘with the times’, were they?”

“Point,” Crowley conceded. He briefly allowed himself to consider the possibility Head Office had found a way to get back at them. He grimaced, and decided to stop. The thought had well and truly put him off his tea, however. He turned around. “I’m gonna try and get some shuteye, angel.”

“All right,” Aziraphale spoke to his back, voice so soft he might break with it. “Sleep well, love.” The angel turned out the lights with a gesture, but didn’t leave the room. It took a while for Crowley to actually drift off, and he didn’t know if it helped or made things worse that Aziraphale had settled in a chair and quietly opened a book by the faint glow of his halo – but wasn’t actually turning any pages.

Then his exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he left the day for what it was.


	3. Pink

He woke up feeling better, although he wouldn’t know it at first. What woke him was Aziraphale shaking him, the angel’s hand an unbearable brand on his shoulder. Crowley immediately drew back, eyes fully yellow and fangs out – but then faltered, looking down at himself, keenly feeling something had changed. “Oh. Hey. Pain’s gone!”

“What?”

“What?”

They ended up staring at eachother like a pair of startled goldfish. Crowley blinked. “Uh. You start. What’s with the rude awakening?” He took stock of the angel’s expression; Aziraphale looked pale and frazzled, and the demon wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been stress-plucking his wings again. “Where’s the fire, angel?” He covered his mouth as a yawn forced its way out of him, uncharacteristic drowsiness settling back into his limbs after the initial shock of waking.

“Crowley, it’s been three days. You just slept. I’ve been watching over you, taking care of your plants, trying not to disturb you, but I just… I couldn’t take it anymore.” Aziraphale ran a hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t have touched you, but – I was scared you’d be gone for a whole century again, I suppose.” He managed a shaky smile. “Clearly, that’s not the case now. Oh, I’m so glad you’re not in pain anymore. Well, apart from when I touched you just now.”

“Wasn’t pain exactly,” the demon pondered, carefully rubbing his shoulder. Shivers and tingling echoes still spread across his skin and he’d prefer not to repeat it, but at least it hadn’t been agony. “I think I might be healing.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes. “And I’d never, angel. Sleeping away the nineteenth century was an exception.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” the angel beamed, letting go of some of the tension in his posture, though not all. “Oh, but, um. There’s also… that.” He gestured at Crowley.

“…You just gestured to all of me.”

“You’ve gone all pink, darling. Pink as a rosebud.” The angel reached out, but stopped himself just in time. “A rather charming tint, but I had to make sure you were alright. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”

The demon looked down at himself again, really looking now, turning over his hands before his face. Indeed; his skin had turned a frankly ridiculous rosy hue all over, practically glowing from the inside. He lifted the covers and almost winced seeing his deep salmon belly. “That’s new. That’s… not right.” For some reason, though, he couldn’t bring himself to care as much as he probably should. The strange exhaustion continued to make itself comfortable deep in his bones, and the demon burrowed back into his nest of blankets. “It’s fine.” He yawned again. “I’m just really… really tired.”

“Pink and fatigued, oh, this just won’t _do,_” the angel fussed. He got to his feet, dusted off his knees. “Curiouser and curiouser. Excuse me a moment.” He gave Crowley a last once-over, worrying at the haziness in his eyes, then paced out into the bookshop proper to put a kettle on and start taking books off shelves. He prided himself on a rather elaborate demonology section, although it’d never really been of any practical use; he didn’t need to summon any demons, it’d really be rather rude to disturb Crowley’s personal life that way, and he didn’t need to banish or ward him off either. If he wanted Crowley to leave, the demon usually got the point by himself.

But if a demon were to suddenly present with strange symptoms… well.

He dug through tome after tome, ending up cross-legged on the carpet surrounded by discarded grimoires, faded parchments and a really rather offensive Egyptian papyrus detailing the rite of spitting and stomping on Apep, demon serpent of chaos. Honestly, Crowley hadn’t done anything in particular to deserve that one – but the demon had burst into the most delightful bout of snickering when they’d come across it together back in Napoleonic France, so Aziraphale had hung on to it. He realized he’d forgotten all about his tea, snapped his fingers to heat up the kettle again, and promptly got sucked back into the _Malleus Maleficarum._

The books didn’t sting or burn him the way the Bible hurt Crowley. Books on demonology were generally written by rather godly men indeed, and therefore, he was finding, they were rather useless. Hell didn’t inspire or share anything on themselves. All Heaven had ever done was spread propaganda. All humanity had ever done was interpret and add, based on their needs and to the best of their knowledge, which in this case was about as useful as a concrete parachute.

“What is a demon,” the angel mused. “How do I bind the demon, get rid of the demon, get the demon to do my bidding. No one ever asks ‘how is the demon’, now do they?”

In the end, he’d torn through the shop like a whirlwind and the kettle had been heated, forgotten and gone cold another three times, and yet he’d found nothing at all that might be of use. He stood, stretching painfully, sighing as he looked upon the chaos. He didn’t like using miracles on his books, but a glance outside told him night had already fallen again and he really ought to be checking up on Crowley. With a snap and a quiet apology, the books found themselves on their proper shelves again.

The angel padded into the back room. Crowley was a shock of ruffled ginger hair peeking out from a bundle of multicoloured fleece, unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Aziraphale just stood and looked for a long moment, endeared and protective and worried, trying to reassure himself this wasn’t going to be like the nineteenth century, before quietly settling in his chair again. He wouldn’t wake the demon. Crowley was healing. He would let him sleep. Yes.

He looked around, frowned, then mouthed a silent ‘ah’ to himself and just miracled himself the long-suffering cup of tea. There. It’d all be perfectly alright. It _would_ be. Whatever this was, they’d weather it together.


	4. Blue

Crowley awoke by himself, sitting up with a start and opening his eyes wide. Then closing them, opening them again, blinking rapidly and rubbing them.

He tried opening his Other eyes, even though the Sight always gave him a headache on Earth.

Nothing. None of it did anything. There was a milky, grey-blue haze over his eyes, and he couldn’t see anything through it.

He couldn’t _see._

“Aziraphale,” he called out, voice reedy in a constricted throat. “Aziraphale –”

Hurried footsteps, a sudden intake of breath. “Oh, oh God –”

“Aziraphale, I can’t see anything.” He felt the angel must be kneeling right in front of him, and gingerly reached out close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, just shy of actually touching. His eyes flicked this way and that in a literal blind panic. “What the _Hell_ is happening to me?”

“Your eyes are blue,” Aziraphale managed, voice carefully measured as not to let it break the way Crowley’s just had. “All cloudy. Your skin and hair are all faded, too, scarcely any colour left – oh, good Lord…”

“Stop invoking Her –”

“Oh. So sorry. It’s just.”

“A sight for sore eyes?” Crowley desperately tried to grin. Aziraphale huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, or a sob. Then a rustle told him the angel had risen to his feet, and the demon didn’t need to see to know how prim and determined he must look now. “Got a plan, angel?”

“Enough is enough. I have to know what I’ve done to you. I’m contacting Heaven.” Aziraphale’s voice was already moving away, the words almost carelessly thrown over his shoulder. Crowley scrambled upright. “Wait, no –”

“Stay right there. I’ll just be a minute.” The angel halted, reconsidering. “Well, perhaps more, knowing them. We’ll see.” And the door was closed, and a moment later Crowley could hear a circular carpet being dragged aside. He froze, knowing what the thing under it was capable of, furiously forcing himself to trust Aziraphale.

There was the sound of something scraping around for a while, and the demon realized Aziraphale must be redrawing the Enochian circle design. He hadn’t even known the angel had removed it, and a pang of affection lingered in his chest like an embarrassing but very accurately thrown dart.

The lighting of eight ivory candles, a brief pause (in which Crowley shuddered, feeling the way he did about fire in the shop). Then, in the most polite, most carefully enunciated voice: “This is the Principality Aziraphale. I’m looking for… well, whoever might be interested in speaking to me, really.”

Crowley shivered again. Going straight for it, eh? Addressing anyone who might hold a grudge. Which was a lot of angels, probably. He didn’t know what was stronger, his admiration or his fear.

His fear turned out to be unfounded. Aziraphale was bounced around between holding menus filled with celestial harmonies that probably made both their toes curl, unwilling angelic clerks that put him back on hold and in some cases started humming the harmonies to cut off Aziraphale’s words before hanging up, the prayer department usually reserved for humans (silence, usually a bored Virtue doing their nails on the other side), and once, mistakenly, the prayer department for promising saints (a more attentive Virtue who regardless still highly preferred not to speak). In the end, after a clearly divine display of Patience, Aziraphale finally managed to get an Archangel on the line.

“What do you want?” Uriel’s voice reverberated through the shop, cold and clipped and to the point. Crowley almost breathed a sigh of relief at the contrast with what’d come before. One more rendition of ‘My Favorite Things’ and he was going to tear right through the couch.

“Ah, Uriel. Good. Um. _Well._” Aziraphale took a breath, gathering himself. “I want to know if anyone’s tampered with my physical or my, ah, ethereal form since I was last with you. Prevented me from performing healing miracles, perhaps?”

“Why would we do that?”

_Don’t give them ideas,_ Crowley mentally pleaded. _If they say they don’t know, they don’t know, that’s how they work, they don’t have the imagination –_

Fortunately, Aziraphale seemed to follow this line of thinking. “Not a clue, that’s why I happen to be asking,” he retorted tartly. “So, no tampering of any sort?”

“You’ve been cast out. We wish to have no further dealings with you. Tampering of any sort would entail _dealing with you,_” Uriel snapped.

“Ah, of course. Jolly good. Um, in that case, have a nice day –” Aziraphale faltered as the Archangel hung up on him mid-sentence, hovered over the circle a moment longer, then scuffed his shoe through some of the lines, breaking it up.

“Nothing, eh?” Crowley said, sitting up as the angel returned to the back room.

“Nothing.”

“Thanks anyway. Means a lot. Please don’t do it again.”

Aziraphale moved closer, and Crowley pulled up his legs to allow him to sit down. His presence still mildly burned through the blankets, but the weight and closeness felt too good for him to really be bothered. “I miss you,” the demon let slip.

“Mm.” Aziraphale clearly didn’t fully trust his voice. Crowley didn’t need eyes to see him carefully holding his tongue, and his hands in his lap. “Say,” the angel managed. “Is it possible to contact Hell through any piece of technology? Any at all?”

“Angel…”

“What if it’s not me? What if they tampered with _you?_ Physical pain and bodily harm is more Downstairs’ style, isn’t it?”

Crowley heaved a breath seemingly heftier than the gates of Eden, briefly closed his unseeing eyes, and forced himself to give in. The angel did make a good point. “I probably can’t use your computer or gramophone. They’re probably too angelically inclined to work. Also, I don’t want to give them this address.” The bookshop had always been a refuge. There was a reason he’d never encouraged Aziraphale to get a television. “So, that’d leave –”

“– the Bentley’s radio. Got it.” The angel got up. “I won’t let you go outside like this.”

“I – you – _bastard_ –” Crowley fumbled after him, missing Aziraphale’s sleeve by a hair and sliding off the couch. “Hold it, at least let me –” But the angel had already speedwalked out the door, and the last thing Crowley wanted was to knock over any of his precious baubles or, Someone forbid, a stack of books when blindly going after him. All he could really do was feel his way back, pull up his knees and hiss and snarl his way through a list of every obscenity he knew, language by language, as the minutes passed. He knew some of the words would be etching themselves into the walls in blood and foxfire, but he didn’t care. 

It took a small nerve-wracked eternity, but eventually the front door jingled again and Aziraphale returned, sighing as he hung his coat. Crowley quickly miracle-cleaned the walls before the angel reached the back room. “How’d it go?” he managed.

“It wasn’t them either.”

“_Please_ for the love of Earth never do either of those things again.” Crowley paused, gathering the scattered bits of himself. “They give you any trouble at all?”

“Well.” There was a small smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “I was immediately met with Lord Dagon, but they also immediately hung up on me. So I kept trying, politely of course, to much the same effect but also their increasing dismay if their increasingly uncouth choice of words was anything to go by. Patience is a virtue, _evidently._”

Crowley grinned. That alone was worth all the lack of help. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Aziraphale gently bumped into Crowley’s blanketed shoulder, then withdrew just as the demon gave a slight shudder. “I could just barely describe your symptoms to them before they told me you were definitely going to die, and it was probably infectious, and we should both try hellfire and holy water just to be sure.”

“Ah Dagon, good old Lord of the Files and Wistful Thinking.”

“But if it’s not Heaven or Hell, just where is this coming from?” Aziraphale fretted. He’d consulted books, angels and demons, now; he didn’t know where to turn next.

“What if it’ll just… pass? The worst of the pain passed. My skin’s healing, this might too.” Let no one ever say Crowley wasn’t an optimist. “Let’s just give it time.”

“I don’t like it,” Aziraphale dropped an unseen and barely felt kiss to his shoulder, and Crowley knew at least some colour must’ve returned to his faded cheeks, “but if you say so, then we’ll wait.”

“Read to me, angel? _These Old Shades,_ maybe?” He could use all the distraction he could get, and even if he couldn’t see it, he could at least hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice when reading one of his beloved Heyers.

“I’d love to, my dear.”


	5. Clear

Late that following morning, Aziraphale was startled out of his book because of his cocoa bursting into flames next to him. He quickly miracled away the fire, left the cracked and blackened cup for what it was and hurried over to the back room. “Crowley?”

He was greeted by lots of shuffling, rummaging and excited noises, and then a very naked demon stretching out in full and offering him a wide, toothy grin under very bright, very yellow eyes. “Angel! I can see!” He burst into giddy snickering. “It’s a _miracle!_”

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale beamed, feeling an uncontrollable grin stretch his cheeks. The sight of his demon was like drawing air back into his lungs after days of breathless worry. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“How do I look?”

Quite a few overjoyed, blush-inducing adjectives vied for dominance on Aziraphale’s tongue, but then he looked closer. Crowley looked _almost_ normal again – there were still streaks of lighter, faded coloration in his hair, and his skin had a strange translucent quality to it. The angel blamed it on him having been cooped up inside for so long. “Much better than yesterday,” he said. Crowley was improving, he was actually healing, just like he’d said. “Oh, I could kiss you.” His hands itched to reach out and touch, especially now the demon was doing well enough to stay upright again. _Especially_ seeing how he’d gone all quiet and bright at that last statement. Aziraphale guiltily shut his mouth, but didn’t take it back.

Crowley gingerly moved closer. “Then why don’t you.”

The angel drew back. “…You know why.”

“No, I’m serious. I really do feel much better.” Crowley gave a little sideways smile and cocked his head, and oh, this was just unfair. Aziraphale was briefly transported back to that glimmering night in Berkeley Square, where he’d known perfectly well what they both wanted and had simply _acted_ before his nerves could get the better of him ever again.

He moved, just as he had then, allowing Crowley to tip up his chin and touching his lips to the demon’s. They were soft and dry and eager, and a little sound escaped them both on contact, a wordless _I missed you,_ and for just a moment everything seemed to be as it had been.

Then Crowley made another sound altogether, and Aziraphale instantly drew back. “Oh – oh no –”

“Doesn’t hurt,” the demon hurried to say, although he’d screwed his eyes almost shut and grit his teeth. “Just – ngh –” A shiver of scales passed across his skin, dull black in the morning light. Crowley rubbed his arms, his sides. “Just itchy.” He snapped his fingers, instantly clothing himself, running a hand through his hair and restoring it to an effortless nonchalance that didn’t match the rest of his posture. “I’m fine. Let’s go out. Been inside long enough, I’ll go crazy if I have to sit still for one more day.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale tentatively agreed, following the demon’s long strides through the shop. “But nothing too strenuous! I won’t let you –”

“Don’t worry, I don’t exactly feel up for a round of clubbing yet.” Crowley’s grin was just shy of manic. “I just need a bit of fresh air, angel. Let’s do St. James’s Park?”

Ah. He could hardly disagree with that. “What could possibly go wrong?” the angel shrugged with a nervous chuckle.

Initially, it almost resembled a normal afternoon. Crowley fidgeted and kept running his hands through his hair, kept shoving his hands into his pockets and taking them out again, kept rubbing his legs together and flung pellets at the ducks and geese a little too forcefully for anyone’s good – that one goose was starting to look rather miffed, puffing itself up and ominously heading their way – but it was nothing Aziraphale hadn’t seen before at some point during their clandestine meetings here. Even if this meeting wasn’t clandestine at all, and he really shouldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security.

He’d asked how the demon was feeling a few times, but his replies had grown ever snappier. He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes behind his sunglasses, but the rest of his face was stony, the tension continuing down his body.

“Are you sure you –”

“I’m gonna fling myself into the pond,” the demon growled quietly.

Aziraphale was taken aback. “Well! I was simply asking out of concern, my dear.”

Crowley turned to him. “No, not like that, not because of _you._” He fixated the duck-filled water before them with a barely suppressed full-body shudder. The goose hissed at them. “I’m just so damned thirsty. No, not thirsty. _Dry._ My skin’s thirsty, does that make sense?”

“Not more or less than anything else these past few days.” Aziraphale took his arm and gently toted him away from the water. “Come sit down, dear.”

Upon settling on the park bench, Crowley immediately rubbed his arm along its wooden back. “So damned itchy –”

Aziraphale blinked at him. Something was definitely off about his skin…

Something was off about his _tattoo._

All of a sudden, he saw it. The coiling black serpent on the side of Crowley’s jaw, just beside his ear; the mark that really wasn’t a tattoo at all. Where Crowley’s human skin was strangely dry and translucent, the black serpent looked all frayed and damaged, discoloured scales marring it in what would be astounding detail, but only struck Aziraphale with a mixture of worry and relieved understanding. “Crowley. Could you do something for me?”

“What.”

“Could you show me… can I see _you_ for a moment?”

The demon just stared at him for a second, but then closed his eyes, focusing on his demonic mark.

Aziraphale had once wondered why some demons carried animal-shaped little creatures with them. Crowley had corrected him, disclosing that the _real_ demons were being carried by their people-shaped vessels. He himself bore his true form in a rather concealed manner, but it was there all the same.

The ‘tattoo’ coiled into life, wrapping its tiny body around Crowley’s ear for support. Aziraphale barely had time to see what was amiss before black scales overtook half of Crowley’s face, then all of him, and then he was sitting next to the massive Serpent of Eden.

The creature looked back at itself. “…Oh no.”

“Crowley, I didn’t mean your _whole_ self, not here!”

“I didn’t mean to!” the serpent agonized. Its face wasn’t really made for expression, but it still managed to look extremely worried. “Aziraphale, I can’t turn back!”

The angel immediately gathered the giant snake close, feverishly reaching out to passers-by and convincing them the goose honking and fluttering over the pond’s fence was really much more interesting than whatever was going on on this particular bench. He quickly shucked off his coat and draped it over the dark form, tucking Crowley in as he just barely coiled up under it in speechless panic.

He knew Crowley had always been terrified of getting stuck in serpent form. He’d been an angel once, a starmaker, and being condemned to crawl the Earth on his belly had been bad enough before he’d managed to reconstruct a humanoid form. “You’re alright. You’re just. You’re _shedding,_ my dear.”

Crowley turned to look at himself. “_What?_”

“It’s all over you.” Aziraphale tentatively stroked the ghostly layer of skin covering Crowley’s scales like pale gauze, or very thin bubble wrap. Crowley winced at the touch. “I don’t ssshed,” he insisted. “I don’t! I never have!”

“Well, you are now, and it looks like it’s going poorly.” Aziraphale racked his mind. “How do I help you with this?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“What? You’re a _snake,_ how do you not know how this works?”

“I’m not a real snake! That’s why I don’t _shed!_” Crowley glared at him. “Got nothing in the bookshop that can help? Any books on snake husbandry?”

“No, herpetology always seemed highly offensive to bring in. You’re not a pet.”

“Sso.” Crowley very clearly missed hands to pinch the bridge of his nose with, and completely withdrew under the coat instead. “You explicitly don’t have books to help me with, for my sake. Very ssweet, very infuriating.”

“Story of our lives, isn’t it.”

“To the internet we go, then.” The serpent shifted a little, then let slip a term decidedly unsuited for the ears of the children merrily passing by now. Aziraphale quickly directed their attention to the goose, effectively blocking it from reaching them. “What is it?”

“No pockets. No phone. And your computer doesn’t have internet.” Crowley poked his face back out, wearing just a hint of a malicious grin. “Sso.”

“Oh, no. None of that.” Aziraphale tried to look stern, but the yellow eyes in the shadow next to him were relentless. “You’re gonna have to, angel.”

“For Someone’s sake –”

Their answers hadn’t been in Satanic books, Heaven or Hell. They’d been on Earth all along, because of course they had been.

Still, this was weird for everyone involved.

“Could’ve finally gotten a ssmartphone,” muttered the fellow in the tan coat, though the voice seemed to come from the suspicious lump circling his shoulders. “Useful things, they are. Would’ve made it easier for me to reach you, too.”

“Out of the question,” he immediately hissed back to himself, in a rather different voice. “I refuse to give customers the means to reach me _anywhere._ It’d be –”

“Hell?”

“Purgatory at the very least.”

“No such thing, I’m afraid. Head Office doessn’t do grey areas or redemption.”

Vicky Muraro didn’t judge, no matter how her other patrons might. She’d had far stranger than white-haired gents with weirdly padded shoulders muttering to themselves in her internet café. At least this one had offered her the warmest smile she’d seen in a long while, payment for his time upfront without any haggling or complaint, and her aching knees had miraculously felt much better after she’d taken it from him, also improving her mood. He could do as he liked; at least he was keeping his voices down.

“Are you alright under there, my dear?”

“Bearable. Bit of a hassle keeping the ssize down. Just search, please, before I lose it and tear your coat.”

“’Snake shed’? Right here in these Googles?”

A few seams gave a slight, but ominous protest. “Angel, so help me, I will type it in myself – I will use my _tail_ –”

“Alright, don’t get your – _you_ in a twist…”

Barely a minute later, to Aziraphale’s impressed approval, they’d found exactly what they’d been looking for. “Signs that are completely normal and nothing to be concerned about,” the angel muttered. “Well, the Almighty could’ve told me that in advance about Earth’s creatures, ‘completely normal’ is rather weird for some of them.” He glanced over his shoulder, into intent yellow eyes. “Let’s see here. Sensitivity and skittishness. Before shedding, the snake will be less active and prone to hiding, irritable and adverse to touch.” Aziraphale let out a huff of relieved laughter. “Well, that couldn’t be more on the money, could it?”

Crowley read along over his shoulder. “The snake’s belly will turn pink as bloodflow is directed to the new sskin. This happens across the entire body, but is usually only visible on the paler underside. …Oh. Grosss.”

“The eyes will turn cloudy and blue when the eye caps loosen, and a layer of fluid builds up over the new ones.” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley. “Who knew shedding snakes went through all this malarkey?”

“Not me. Been disstancing myself from all that for the past few thousand years.”

“Now, for the actual shedding process. The snake may seek out rough surfaces to help rub the old skin off…”

“…Or look for water to ssoak in.” Crowley drew back into the coat. “It’s that simple?”

“Avoid handling before and during shedding.” Aziraphale winced. “I’m ever so sorry for this.”

“Brought it on myself,” Crowley uttered morosely, jabbing his tail at the screen. “See, there. Snakes generally shed only to grow, but theory sstates they can shed more often to fix an injury, often an accidental burn. I don’t grow, but…” He let out an ironic chuckle. “I really am Icarus.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to be awfully tender with you once all this blows over.”

“Uh –”

“Oh, but first, we’ll need to draw you a bath…”

The seams around his shoulders protested again as Crowley’s concentration slipped. “_Ngk._”

“Sir?”

Aziraphale abruptly looked up into the face of the cafe’s owner. “Ah. Yes, dear?”

“I’m afraid your thirty minutes are up.” They weren’t, but Vicky had decided she drew the line at people flirting with themselves. Time to free up a seat for the next customer.

“Of course. We – um, _I’ve_ found what I was looking for, anyway. Thank you ever so much.”

“Have a nice day, sir.”

Crowley lost control of his size not two steps out of the café. This was not a problem for two reasons.

Firstly, everyone knew it was impossible to walk the streets of London carrying what most resembled a pitch-black anaconda around one’s shoulders and trailing down one’s back. Therefore, no one took notice (except when one fashion-forward chap complemented Aziraphale on his marvellous black silk scarf, to said scarf’s chagrin). Secondly, Crowley might be heavy; he was a good few meters of solid muscle and demonic ire, and perhaps drawn Downward a little more than usual, too. But Aziraphale had once been a soldier of the Lord and he still had the physical strength to go with it. He could lift Crowley in his human form, he could damn well lift him now.

The angel resolutely strode to the nearest street corner and hailed a cab. He had a snake-shaped being to free.


	6. New

Crowley let out a sigh that was immediately lost in a string of bubbles as Aziraphale lowered him.

The angel might still not have a proper bedroom in his shop, but that was merely because he didn’t strictly need one. Sleeping was still more of a novelty than a necessity, and he preferred to do it on the couch surrounded by books anyway. (Crowley never objected; the couch was soft, so was the angel, and they always took care to have all the space they needed.) But _bathing,_ ah, that was one of humanity’s finer inventions. Warmth, relaxation, scented oils, perhaps a glass of wine and some candles, certainly some light reading – Heaven had nothing on any of it. Thus, Aziraphale kept a proper bathroom, complete with a magnificent Victorian claw-footed tub.

He wouldn’t be indulging himself today, however.

Crowley incessantly coiled in on himself in the warm water, reveling and rubbing against his own scales in a mixture of relief and annoyance. His head dipped below the surface every so often, small bubbles rising from his nose as water sloshed over the tub’s edge. “Go- Sa- _Sstars,_ that’s better.”

Aziraphale watched as the demon’s layer of loose, dry skin became looser still, gradually wafting around in the water more freely. He rolled up his sleeves and carefully rubbed the corners of Crowley’s mouth, where the shed was beginning to come free. The serpent shuddered.

“Alright?”

“A lot.”

“Good or bad lot?”

A pause. “Good. Keep going.”

Aziraphale stuck his other hand in, too, gently freeing the serpent’s face and very carefully rolling the shed over his nose, his eyes, the back of his head. Crowley pushed into his touch, pale shreds flaking into the water. “…Very good.”

It was like the grooming of wings, a little. It was meticulous work, an interplay of Crowley’s coiling movements and Aziraphale’s gentle hands, gradually stripping down the pale, dull layer of discarded skin off the demon’s body. The shed skin rolled up like an old sock. The scales underneath were downright stunning in comparison.

“Your light doessn’t hurt at all anymore, angel,” the demon remarked. “Seems I healed fully.”

“Yes,” the angel said, smiling uncontrollably. “Yes, it seems you did.”

Crowley looked back at the part of himself that’d shed already.

Aziraphale had once compared the sheen of colour in his black scales to a nebula, a rainbow of gas and cosmic matter out in the dark void of space. That rainbow was more pronounced now, vivid with freshness, contrasted against a deeper black than ever – but the cosmic parallel went further still.

Crowley’s new scales were speckled with silver light, resembling stars more than anything. Strange constellations not of any world, miniscule scintillations only visible at the perfect angle, but there, right enough. As the great serpent moved, it was like gazing into the cosmos itself.

It was the silver they’d found suspended right between ethereal and occult, exactly like the light the two of them could create together.

Too much of it had hurt him, before, but now he’d adjusted. Now, it’d become part of him. Aziraphale knew his light would never hurt the demon again. The difference between them had only been skin deep, after all, and that’d been all that’d needed some slight adjustment.

“Stars,” the angel smiled, marvelling, “you’re glorious like this.”

Snakes couldn’t really smile, but right now, Crowley was _beaming._

It took the rest of the day to properly free the demon and reveal his entire night sky. Aziraphale made sure the water didn’t cool down and stuck around to help with the entire process, delighting in the chance to admire the demon from every angle and map each and every one of his newborn constellations. Crowley would occasionally hide his face underwater, but the angel recognized his flustered joy for what it was.

By the end of it, though, the demon was exhausted. He still couldn’t turn back to his favourite shape, but that didn’t frighten him anymore. He was warm and clean and free from any annoyance, and most importantly, comfortably wrapped around Aziraphale for the first time in a whole week. Crowley was at peace, and Crowley sank into a dreamless sleep.

At some point during the night, darkly shining coils and smooth scales had turned back to lanky limbs and warm skin. At some point in the morning, daylight shone on a thoroughly reborn demon, bundled up in blankets and silky pajamas and Aziraphale’s embrace.

Crowley woke with a little muffled sound, snuggling closer. Aziraphale ran a gentle hand through his hair, unable to avert his eyes or to stop smiling at what he saw. The demon looked positively radiant, even with his eyes still closed.

“Hello there.”

“Sssomeone’s sakes.”

“Alright?” Aziraphale briefly stilled his hand; his every touch elicited a shiver from the demon.

“A lot.” But Crowley was smiling. “A good lot.”

“I’m so glad to hear it.” Aziraphale’s own smile was clearly audible in his voice, and Crowley opened an inquisitive eye. “Look, dear. You’ve still got your constellations.”

The demon looked at his hands. Just like his face and probably the majority of the rest of him, they were covered in a fine dusting of freckles. “Oh, for –”

“Don’t they call them angel kisses?” Aziraphale beamed. “It was only a matter of time, love. They suit you, they really do.”

“This is stupid.” Crowley was still staring at his hands, so Aziraphale gently took hold of them, kissing his knuckles. “I love them.”

“…Yeah, me too.”

“They match the stars inside of you.”

Crowley’s eyes were still fixated on where Aziraphale was touching him. “Bloody sensitive’s what they are.”

The angel chuckled. “I recall a demon flying too close to the sun because he wanted _more…_” He cupped the sensitive nape of Crowley’s neck, running his fingers up with just a hint of divine influence. The demon didn’t seem to know whether to tense up or melt into it, shivering and closing his eyes. “Yeah, alright,” he managed. “Now I’m there with half a touch, why not.” He cracked open a golden sliver. “The old skin took six thousand years to grow. Who knows when _this_ silly getup properly toughens up.”

“Do you want it to?”

Crowley grinned. “Hell no.”

“We’ve created a monster,” Aziraphale gleefully concluded. And he gleefully let his laughter be muffled as the freckled demon rolled on top of him, wholeheartedly embracing his monstrosity.

“So. You guys go through this many times over those short little lifetimes, eh.”

Crowley had never wanted to come to London Zoo’s reptile house. They’d gone to see the other animals plenty of times, ever since the Zoo’s opening back in the Victorian era, but never this place. Once upon a time, Aziraphale had thought that maybe the demon didn’t like to see snakes in enclosures because he identified with them. Now he knew Crowley very carefully _didn’t_ see himself as an actual snake, and was afraid that maybe he might start to if he spent enough time around them, made an effort to really see them.

Recent events had left the demon with a newfound respect for the creatures, however. He was standing at the glass, softly shaking his head at the brilliant green tree boa curled up and comfortably pillowing its own head on a horizontal branch. “And I thought humans had it tough. Well, you’d better be well taken care of.”

They would be, Aziraphale knew. Crowley was inspiring their caretakers at this very moment. He put in a little effort himself towards their fellow visitors, and smiled as the frowning little girl next to them brightened, arriving at an insight all her own. “Oh,” she breathed. “They’re so pretty.”

“Aren’t they?” he wholeheartedly agreed. “All of Earth’s creatures are lovely, but snakes, I’ve found, especially so.” He felt Crowley’s sidelong glance on him as the girl looked up. “But aren’t they slimy?”

“Not at all, my dear,” the angel smiled. “Not even their shed skin. They’re delightfully smooth all the way down.”

The girl beamed back at him and ran to find her parents, probably to enlighten them on everything she’d just found. Meanwhile, Crowley slunk closer. “Damn right I’m smooth all the way down. I’d say I’m the smoothest serpent in here, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s not a competition, love.”

“I meant _figuratively,_ angel –”

Aziraphale wisely didn’t dignify this with an answer. “You know what I find peculiar?” he mused, thoughtfully gazing at the tree boa.

Crowley closed his mouth. “What.”

“The two of us getting… close on the regular only had an effect on you. Why didn’t I go through an equivalent of growing a skin better suited to –”

“Sir?”

They both turned. There was a pair of teenagers behind them, one of them hesitantly holding a great, gleaming white feather. “I think you dropped this?”

As Aziraphale stared at them in startled silence and Crowley snatched the feather from their hands, another drifted from the angel’s back. And another…

They could laugh about it by the time they’d rushed home, even as they saw the great ragged gaps in Aziraphale’s molting wings. They laughed even more after the angel had spent a few pampered days on his belly on Crowley’s bed, when they first saw the silver streaking through Aziraphale’s new feathers like Jacob’s ladders through cloud.

They’d managed to mark eachother as something completely unique; angel and demon as one as no others had ever been before. None of the others Up or Down would ever even dream of this, but they didn’t have a clue what they were missing, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. <3 Now, just a disclaimer; don't actually help your snake shed unless it's actually having trouble. Normally they can handle the process on their own as long as the humidity's good, which was also the reason Crowley's shed had become stuck. :P


End file.
